


Pæne umbra

by polariscope



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, M/M, One Shot, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 02:44:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18002312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polariscope/pseuds/polariscope
Summary: “Margo’s gonna eat me alive when she realizes Penny 23 dropped us here instead of following her to Fillory. But it’s called a happy place for a reason.”Eliot and Quentin talk alone for the first time post-Eliot-rescue.





	Pæne umbra

**Author's Note:**

> This will jump right into some reconciliation. I didn't expect it to get this long, so I didn't worldbuild the rescue itself, sorry! Requested by @eliotsmagic on tumblr who asked for them being in love and cute, which I kind of did the Most with (this very much spiraled OOPS). Beta'd by the wonderful @hoteldestiel on tumblr.
> 
> Some angst, a lot of soppiness. Trigger warning for descriptions of anxiety/panic attacks. **Spoilers for season 4 of the Magicians.**
> 
> Shameless references to Quentin and Eliot fireside chats from the series. And another one that should be obvious.

“So, were you able to get all the blood off?” Eliot asks, at last sinking into a chair. There’s a half-hearted grunt of affirmation before Quentin drops with a thud in the chair closest his.

“Drink?” Eliot offers, though he’s doubtful he can deliver on it despite pouring a glass of wine for himself. His limbs still jitter in protest when he moves, as if his body doesn’t yet believe he’s back in control.

Quentin eyes Eliot’s glass warily, and, for some reason, it’s an expression that makes Eliot inexplicably self-conscious. But Quentin saves him the trouble of getting up with a quick “no, I’m good,” and lets out a dense sigh that belies the sentiment entirely. 

Eliot lingers. “Will Julia be okay?”

“Yes. She’ll be fine. They’ll be… fine.” 

His voice catches. Eliot glances over, sees Quentin’s eyes flutter close, open, close. “It’s over,” Quentin mutters, and it’s laced with exhaustion. “It’s over. For now. Who knows when the shit we pulled will catch up to us. It always does. I don’t fucking care. I just—”

Quentin doesn’t finish. Instead, he runs a hand over his face and keeps it there for a moment too long. A tremor tickles Eliot’s spine in the wake of the silence that follows. He can see Quentin frowning at the fire in the cottage hearth crackling near to them.

It’s the first real time they’ve been able to pause – nobody to save, no new agenda, no new crisis. But their battles were separate, and Eliot knows that, for Quentin, this has been an excruciatingly long time coming. He can barely fathom it. 

Eliot takes a sizable sip from his glass and resolves not to stare.

“Margo’s gonna eat me alive when she realizes Penny 23 dropped us here instead of following her to Fillory,” Eliot tries. “My apologies if you wanted to go somewhere else. But, well, it’s called a happy place for a reason.” 

Quentin looks at him, finally, with a question in a raised brow.

Eliot shakes his head. “Later.” _Hopefully a lot later_ , he thinks. “So. Are you—?”

Quentin interrupts. “I’m fine. I should be asking you.”

It’s a question Eliot feels he has no right to answer, frankly. How is he after spending weeks, months, trapped in his own mind while a terrifying, omnipotent monster tortured and tried to kill all the people in his life that mattered to him? And they had to sacrifice their sanity, safety, _blood_ , and nearly everything else to save him since he did the one thing he wasn’t supposed to do and release it into the world?

Eliot sets his drink down and exhales.

And then slides down his chair onto the floor.

Or, at least, he tries to. Because he thought it would be like when Quentin did it that one time. When they wanted to avoid talking about bad shit. And that felt like the right thing to do in this moment. 

But the outsourcing to his body fails entirely, and he crashes onto his ass.

“Mother of fuck.”

There’s a beat, and then Eliot hears a muffled, stuttering of breath coming from beside him. He glances at Quentin right as a priceless, dopey smile breaks on his face. And it’s just like – but Eliot can’t finish that thought because a loud snort echoes in the room.

And Quentin is undone, nose scrunching, as he dissolves into wheezing laughter. For a split second, it seemed he attempted concern, but he failed miserably, making his face contort in a goofy ( _not cute, not really fucking cute_ ) way. Then Quentin, too, collapses on the ground, and it’s hilariously obvious that he flopped off his chair on purpose. And that’s all it takes for Eliot, because _he’s ridiculous_ , and Eliot is shaking with gaiety.

“That was so goddamn funny,” Quentin blurts, pinching the bridge of his nose and snorting helplessly.

“Alright, alright, shut it, Coldwater,” Eliot retorts, but it’s devoid of bite and comes out in a burst of mirth. “Or else… I’ll lambaste you on that haircut.”

He delivers a little kick at Quentin’s leg, and it’s answered with a shove to his shoulder.

“Nothing’s wrong with my hair,” Quentin fires back, still exuberant. He’s right, but Eliot doesn’t say so. “And ‘Brian’ cut it short, not me.”

Eliot faux-gasps. “And you’re not devastated? Given your affinity for long mullets?”

Quentin snorts, this time with affront. “Hey, okay - _no_ \- first? That was a different timeline. So that—” Quentin gestures comically around his head. “That never happened. And you didn’t say anything for years. So you have no stake in that argument.”

“Mmhmm,” Eliot yields with a grin.

It’s strange. The memories from that timeline are so different than normal ones, and yet Eliot experiences the fondness of that day, in another life, when he eventually told Q how absurd his long hair looked. Well, that was until Eliot taught him to cut and style it right. And tie it up nicely.

But they were older, then. Somehow. As compared to… now.

As quickly as it came, their amusement fades, and the room dulls to the soft snap-pop-snap of the fire. A clock ticks, somewhere, and continues for a long time; there’s a pulse in Eliot’s temple unpleasantly echoing its rhythm.

Eliot shifts, extending his legs towards the hearth, and suddenly, not quite on purpose, there’s a brush of shoulders. He tries to delicately offer more space, but the empty bearing of the cottage seems to wrap him in a chokehold. He peeks over, feeling awkward, but Quentin is staring down at his hands. 

Eliot pointedly ignores that they’re clenching.

“So, hey, uh, seriously,” Quentin ventures, so quiet, and turns to face him. Immediately, Eliot avoids eye contact. Fear of that expression crawls under Eliot’s skin. 

“Are you actually– are you okay, Eliot?” 

There’s a torment that resonates in the way Quentin pronounces his full name, and Eliot wishes he could unhear it.

It’s not a difficult question nor answer. He’s surprisingly good, considering. There are generous aches and bruises, but, as far as Eliot’s concerned, it’s like he woke up from a dream. So, yes, he’s _okay_ ; he just needs to speak aloud and confirm it.

But.

But there’s this stupid, gravid weight of circumstance settling on Eliot that says, _what kind of motherfucking trauma did I put my friends through to be here?_

Such as the kind that’s radiating off Quentin.

“Q,” Eliot inhales, twisting to face him. “I know a lot of bad shit happened. I don’t have all the details obviously, but,” Eliot pauses, meeting Quentin’s eyes. There’s fervor in them, and it’s exactly what Eliot feared. 

He soldiers on. “I want you to tell me. Everything from when – when I was, you know, The-Shining-level mindfucked. Doesn’t have to be now. But at some point.”

And Eliot can’t help himself. He reaches out and touches Q’s cheek; it’s intimate and certainly not earned, but he _needs to_ because, “I’m not an idiot. You’re not fine, and I won’t push you on that, but look. I’m fucking - actually - _genuinely_ fine? Nothing happened to me. I slagged off in a couple fun memories with imagined drugs and whisky, and that was it. But,” Eliot delays.

“But I can’t say I’m okay? Because I was a colossal _ballsack_ , and it cost you, Margo, everyone. Because of me—” 

He can’t continue. _God._ Everything about this is terrifying. A part of him is screaming that he didn’t deserve it. That, why the ever-loving fuck didn’t he use his moments of freedom to tell them to trap the monster. His body? It wasn’t worth it. Eliot’s soul was still in tact. But allowing a malevolent manbaby to terrorize the entire world? He could’ve stayed in his head forever, like Charlton, especially if it meant that —

As if suddenly burned, he yanks his hand back and averts his gaze. Too quickly. Hopes it isn’t obvious, but he knows it is. Elects to stare at the fire like it might abruptly change colors.

“Anyway. I fucked up, but I wasn’t _fucked up_ so,” he finishes lamely. 

Eliot spies Quentin turning away from him in his peripheral, hears him let out another shaky, exaggerated breath. “God, Eliot, that’s– I’m really fucking glad? That it wasn’t awful for you in there. The shit I imagined—” 

There’s agony in his tone, so Eliot cuts in. “I’m okay, really. And I—,” _I need you to be too_ , Eliot wants to say, but the words bond like glue inside him, and he trails off. Mercifully, Quentin doesn’t press him to finish. 

The conversation lulls once more, but the silence only suffocates. Eliot swallows; it’s uncomfortable, thickset in his throat, and his ears ring with static noise. Somehow, for two people who lived a lifetime together, it’s unbearable. 

“El,” Quentin begins, shattering the air. “You’re right; I’m– I’m not fine. Probably none of us are all that fine.” Quentin stops sharply.

Eliot’s eyes snap over to him. He immediately regrets it.

Quentin’s slumped, head back against his chair, and his hands are clasped, tight, together; he’s running a fretful thumb back, forth, back, forth, over his knuckles. He’s doing that thing with his mouth; it twitches and falters, teeth fussing over the corner of his bottom lip. 

And maybe – if Eliot hadn’t had access to the Quentin from his memories – maybe, probably, he wouldn’t have recognized it. But he does, wishes he didn’t, and aches from it. 

His expectations for their reunion – this time, now, where he’s finally free of the Monster – why the fuck did he think it would be easy? It hurts. _It hurts._ A knife-to-the-back mix of guilt and shame that he’d always been so masterful at burying down, down, down. 

“Shitcockfuck,” Eliot says, covering his face in his hands. “FUCK, Q. I royally shat the bed on this one. What I did to you—”

“Hey, El, _no_ ,” Quentin emphasizes, and he must’ve moved, because there’s a hand, firm, on Eliot’s shoulder, coaxing. “Look at me.”

He does. But Quentin is too close now, and those eyes incinerate him.

“Eliot, you need to – okay, I’m not trying to be a dick, but I’m literally only going to say this once, so you need to listen, alright?” 

Eliot nods; he’s all too aware of Quentin’s fearlessness, even now. He grabs Quentin’s hand on his shoulder, pulls it to his lap, and squeezes. 

Quentin clutches it like a lifeline.

“Okay, yes, I’m really not fine. I’ve been a resident of this head of mine long enough to be sure of that. And shit got – fucked up real fast. I did things that…” Quentin halts, shakes his head quickly. “But I _had_ to save you. So I don’t care. And I’ll tell you everything, I promise, but you can’t—,” he wavers. “Fuck, I know what you’re going through here. I do. I’ve done it to myself my entire life, and even as I say this, knowing what I’ll have to tell you? I know you’ll do it to yourself too. Because it was bad. It was a whole goddamn clusterfuck of bad.” A sardonic laugh bursts out of him. “But has it ever been easy? No.”

Eliot’s frozen; he wants to say something, say _something_ , but this isn’t done. Quentin’s eyes are darting back and forth, frantic; Eliot grips his hand in earnest, wills it to help him.

“I _can’t_ ,” Quentin pleads. He’s taking in sudden breaths, and something painful throbs in Eliot’s stomach at the sight of it. “I can’t see you like that. It will _fucking kill me_.” Quentin’s voice finally cracks, and if Eliot had assumed this couldn’t get worse, it just did.

Quentin struggles on. “I know why you did what you did, and it matters so little now, so _please_ , El, do not beat yourself up because we fought for you. After all this—,” Quentin pants, dropping Eliot’s hand to clench at his jeans.

“I can’t watch another person I—”

They’re on the ground, and it’s all sideways-awkward positioning, but Eliot surges toward him, and hugs him, tight, with all the strength he has. Quentin bends to him, arms wrapping around Eliot’s waist.

“Q,” Eliot whispers. “Q, I’m so sorry. It’s okay; I’m good. I promise to lay off the masochistic self-pity. You don’t need that shit right now, and if you’re forgiving me, I’ll accept it.”

A pause, and then Quentin’s sinking into Eliot, deflating, and all the stress he’s absorbed over so long seems to cascade out of him. Eliot hears Quentin working, subtly, to quell his breathing, coming off an edge. It crushes Eliot to acknowledge it; it’s been a long time since he’s seen Quentin that far on one.

Encouragingly, the thick tension in the room begins to wane and wither away, and Eliot takes comfort in their chests rising-falling-rising-falling, pressed, into each other. 

He hears Quentin inhale; it’s a signal, and Eliot sets himself for whatever’s next.

“El… I won’t lie. I lost hope I’d ever save you. There were so many times you could’ve been – gods, you were so close to being gone forever. I thought,” Quentin gasps into his collarbone, wetness in his voice. “I thought – I’d have to live without you, this time, for so long.” The words pierce through to Eliot’s heart, sharp and tortuous. “I didn’t want to. I—”

“Q, hey, hey, stop. Don’t do that to yourself, okay? You silly hypocrite. I’m alive; I’m here, and you saved me. You, everyone, brought me back,” Eliot stresses. _Home_ , his brain adds roguishly. 

Still, despite Eliot’s nonchalance, Quentin’s comments are registering, and it’s hitting him all over again, like voltage, a current of emotions putting his hair on end. _He never gave up on me_ , Eliot beholds, and it’s a punch to the gut. But it’s more than that; it’s in the desperation, in the hopelessness, and Eliot’s pulse is pounding something fierce, overwhelming him.

Needing to distract himself, Eliot starts rubbing Quentin’s back, but immediately, it seems too patronizing. And then, before he can stop himself, he trails a hand up, to the back of Quentin’s neck, and tangles fingers in the hair at his nape, massaging. 

“I’m here, with you, and I’m not leaving,” Eliot reassures. He only hesitates a moment before placing a kiss to Quentin’s temple, then another, and ultimately lets his mouth rest there.

Quentin sighs. “I’m still pinching myself. I can’t believe I got you back.” There’s a tremor on his final word, and Eliot tightens his hold on him subconsciously.

“You did, though. You pulled it off. All of you. And – thank you. Thank you for saving me. I was such a— ” Eliot stops himself, because how stupid can he be? “Wow, shit, sorry. None of that. I got you. I promise. If Margo were here, she would tell me to pussy up right about now. That, and she’d say we’re two melodramatic assclowns.” Eliot feels Quentin laugh against him, tries to ignore the brisk, inhaled sniff that comes after. 

Gradually, Eliot untangles from the hug, and somehow, defiant of the thrumming in his veins, he’s resolute. Quentin’s peering up at him through damp eyelashes, nonplussed, and Eliot finds him exquisite. He brushes aside inhibition and cups that stupid, beautiful, courageous face in both hands.

“Any chance we can agree to stop being so stupidly self-sacrificing from this point on? Because – what’s wrong?” Eliot asks; they’re so close now, and Quentin’s knit brows are on full display.

“Nothing, it’s just,” Quentin starts and inches impossibly forward, reaching up to cover Eliot’s hands with his own. Eliot’s heartbeat trips and stumbles over itself, and this is far more intimate than he planned it to be. Quentin, meanwhile, is boring into him. 

“He had your eyes, you know. Well, obviously – and face and body, but. But he had your eyes, and, out of everything, that was the worst. I could hardly ever look at him — you. It drove me insane.”

Eliot grimaces, suppressing a shiver. He’s been adamant about not conceding brain space to the Monster – to what unmitigated control the Monster had, for so long, with his body; he can’t do anything about it. But he especially doesn’t want to think about it now, not when all that matters is the man in front of him. Nevertheless, Eliot feels, somewhere deep, a sickening familiarity to the situation.

“Are you,” Eliot refocuses, swallowing thickly. “Are you okay with them now?”

Quentin smiles as if to say, _what do you think_ , and gently pulls Eliot’s hands off his face. He doesn’t let go of them and, instead, manipulates them until their fingers are entwined; Eliot stares down, hazy.

Eliot wishes he could play it all off as unexceptional, but he can’t. There’s an ardor, building, vibrating to the tune of his rapid heartbeat, and the universe seems to prod him, humming, _now you dumbass_.

“So,” Eliot tries. “I’m not wrong that we’re having a moment right now?” 

It’s not at all what he meant to say, because he panicked, but Quentin breaks, amusement crackling in his throat. Eliot finds himself on the receiving end of a pair of rolled eyes. “I thought _I_ was bad at this.”

“Coldwater, you shouldn’t be surprised that sometimes I am a whole ass idiot.”

“Oh, I know,” Quentin confirms, and he grins, but it’s only for an instant. Then, after a careful hesitation, “What do _you_ want right now?”

Eliot’s throat dries. He knows what, and he knows it definitively, but it’s as if he’s suddenly suspended in time, unable to act. 

It was easier talking to a memory.

But it also never mattered before, Eliot realizes. When it came to hooking up with friends, strangers, housemates… or sleeping with people’s boyfriends. Even when it was someone he actually enjoyed spending time with – there were only a couple of times when it was more than just casual, detached. And, outside of those few exceptions, being himself was simple, second-nature. Eliot was always charismatic, always the perfect host, always on his game. 

But it never mattered this much. And whenever it actually mattered, Eliot reverted to the scared farm kid from Indiana that chickened out every time, without fail. 

Except, **_not_** this time, because he made himself a promise that it would be different.

Eliot breathes, steeling himself, and he clenches their interwoven hands for reassurance.

Time to be brave.

“So, I can’t really answer your question without all-out monologuing first, so. Here it goes, Q. Ready? Okay,” Eliot gets out in a rush, struggling to keep eye contact. “I high-key hate myself for how badly I fucked things up with you. I am also crazy terrified that you may have moved on or that you think I rejected you for anything other than me being a scared sack of shit and not believing you could love me. Which makes me terrified that you won’t trust me now and will only want to be friends because maybe that would easier for you instead of dealing with my emotional diarrhea. But here we are, and fuck it all. I don’t care anymore; I’m telling you. I want this. Whatever this might be, okay? I want you in my life, for fucking ever, not just because we’re on a quest, not because you’re the only choice. And above all, you need to know how much I goddamn fucking love you, how much I want us to be—” 

But his concluding syllables are stolen, as Quentin pushes the final inches forward to kiss Eliot, soft and gentle, squeezing their hands together in the space between. Eliot’s stomach bottoms out in surprise. Unfortunately, it only lasts a few, brief moments; Eliot can barely react before Quentin is pulling away.

“Sorry. We’ve been like, in this really close position for a while now doing all this hugging and touching, and I’ve fucking missed you, so, honestly, I really couldn’t wait any longer? I didn’t mean to spoil your moment,” Quentin admits, bashful.

Eliot blinks, caught entirely off guard. “Oh. Yeah, alright. Not… a problem?”

“Genuinely curious,” Quentin continues, disregarding Eliot’s dithering. “Did you think after all I said, after all of this—” And Quentin is forced to extricate their hands from each other to gesture vaguely to the space around them. “That I had seriously moved on from you? That I would just want to be friends?”

“Well, I mean, not when you say it like that,” Eliot grumbles, but instantly, his insides are alight, hope bubbling up, bouncing off of elation, colliding with warmth. “Also, this has been – it’s – there’s been a lot of,” and it’s Eliot’s turn to gesticulate at random. “Stuff. Heavy, emotional stuff.”

“Like emotional diarrhea?” Quentin gibes, and Eliot huffs.

“Alright, Coldwater, that’s enough from you.” Eliot hurriedly jabs his fingers into Quentin’s side – which is a very secret, very ticklish spot. 

“No, no, no, not there,” Quentin exclaims, grinning ridiculously while twisting and rolling away.

“I’m instigating a rule that any spontaneous, soul-baring, stream of consciousness is off-limits to crude mockery.” Eliot flicks a paper clip he found on the ground in Quentin’s direction.

“Ah, I see. And you’re going to invoke that rule?” Quentin teases. He’s sprawled out in front of the fire, smirking at Eliot, hands casually resting on his forehead.

“Yes, I am. Dreadful, mortifying punishments will be strictly enforced,” Eliot declares. “And what do you know? Voila. You have already earned one yourself, you audacious testicle.”

Quentin snorts theatrically. “And what punishment is that, then?”

Eliot pushes himself up and inelegantly crawls across the floor to Quentin, settling his legs on each side of Quentin’s waist. He moves to hover over him, placing weight on his hands, boxed around Quentin’s ears.

“Okay, wow, I’m sore,” Eliot bemoans (Quentin nods in commiseration), but he hurriedly clears his throat. “I have arrived to deliver your punishment.”

Quentin’s eyebrows raise in inquiry; he’s trying to appear serious, but he’s chewing his upper lip to keep a dumb grin off his face. “Pray tell?”

And it all seems so lighthearted, but Eliot’s trembling, his heart in his throat. “You have to ask me again. For a shot for us to be together.”

Quentin sobers immediately, and the glow from the fire casts dangerous shadows across his features. His eyes betray him, earnest and feverish, in the penumbra. Quentin sits up on his forearms, and then moves off them to sit up fully, and Eliot has to fall back on Quentin’s legs to avoid a collision. Eliot scrambles off of him, stretching his legs out parallel to his instead.

Quentin is breathing, quick and distinct, and it’s all Eliot can hear. The tensity in the air, so nimble in its previous escape, returns with a vengeance. Quentin’s nose flares, once, twice, and his eyes are luminous.

“Eliot Waugh,” Quentin enunciates, and rises to his knees. And if Eliot wasn’t so desperately sucker-punched, so enamored, by the reverence in which Quentin said his name, Eliot would call him an overdramatic thespian. But Quentin’s edging closer and raising his hands, palms up in invitation, and it’s a blatant, direct mirror to the past. Well, almost.

Eliot places his own hands gently on Quentin’s, and Quentin holds them tight.

“My turn for a sappy monologue,” Quentin starts, ignoring Eliot’s offended “rude,” and smiles serenely. “So. Destiny is bullshit. But we spent 50 years together, and up until then, I had never imagined that my life could make… any sense, let alone what I had with you,” Quentin alludes, and Eliot exhales unsteadily.

“Quick note, I don’t really remember how this originally went so,” Quentin laughs. “But I know this. I lost you recently, and it’s silly to say now, but I didn’t truly realize a world without you in it would be so fucking bleak and awful. And I’d prefer never to experience it for another 50 years if I can. Who knows if we’ll still be together, or friends, or – married, or, uh, just – anyway. I do know that right now, especially now, I love you, El. And I want to be with you. So, would you want to give it a shot with me?”

And Eliot’s cheeks are damp (he will later protest that the tears were from the smoke in the air), but he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, looks up at Quentin, and says, “Yes. A billion times yes.” 

And Eliot knows. That everything will be different, this time around. There will be no mosaic, no idyllic lifestyle, no singular purpose for them. Theirs is a world that threatens misery and misfortune and a whole lot of bullshit at any given time. There will be trauma and grief and whatever horrors still lie out there. But, despite it all, it’s so fucking obvious. 

Eliot has never felt so fearless in the face of the worst the world could throw at him than with Quentin Coldwater by his side. And he’s absolutely certain that they will be brave for each other, support each other, and heal each other.

Eliot grins. “So, you have one more punishment.”

Quentin tilts his head adorably. “Oh, do I?”

“Yes. You have to kiss me. A lot. Now.”

“You’re right; these punishments are mortifying,” Quentin jokes, and Eliot yanks him down, letting their foreheads touch. It’s stupid; it’s all stupid and wondrous and perfect, and Eliot’s happiness could break his face.

“I’m also going to say I love you again, because I can.”

“Gross,” Quentin grouses, grinning like a dope.

“Isn’t it, though?” Eliot says, and finally, finally, kisses him. And, this time, it’s utterly, undeniably real.

**Author's Note:**

>  _pæne umbra_ : from Latin; noun: _penumbra_
> 
> find me at [thehighkings](http://thehighkings.tumblr.com) on tumblr <3


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